


Drugged

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot Twists, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John wakes up in Sherlock's arms after his return feeling drugged and is uncertain as to how it came about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

John had no idea how it had happened. All he knew was that one minute he was in a bar with Stamford watching a game on the telly and the next he awoke feeling sick, sticky, and with his arm wrapped around a warm body. Sherlock’s warm body. Sherlock, who had driven him to drink in the first place when he’d suddenly revealed himself to be alive. Sherlock, who had stood there looking amused while he took the man’s pulse to assure himself he was, in fact, _alive_. Sherlock, who was supposedly married to his work, but was now lying passively in his bed smelling of sex. Sherlock, who rolled over, grimaced, and revealed he only felt a bit better than John.

“My gods, that’s _disgusting._ Is sex always so sloppy and filthy?”

“Only the best sort,” John replied, not sure how he should react.

_How the hell did I end up in bed with Sherlock, and what have we done? My gods, this is wrong. This is so_ very _wrong! I’m covered in come, fuck, is it even my own? My arse isn’t sore. That means something, doesn’t it?_

“I’m in desperate need of a shower. I understand it’s normal for a pair to shower together after engaging in coitus or similar activities. Would you care to join me?” Sherlock asked, springing upright as though he hadn’t been drinking at all the night before, but John distinctly recalled him having at least two G&T’s.

John blinked. It sounded as if this were utterly unfamiliar to Sherlock. His initial reaction of flipping-the-fuck-out might not be warranted. His first thought was that he and Sherlock had had an awkward drunk fumble; his second that he’d been drugged since he _felt_ drugged this morning rather than his usual hung over; his third that if anyone were going to drug him, it would be Sherlock. Now he wasn’t so sure of any of those.

“It’s… not really a necessity,” John replied, trying to get the room to stop spinning before he retched on the floor.

“Hmm, I think I’d like to. It will afford me more time to touch your body, which I was not presented with last night.”

John levered himself into a sitting position- really the room was doing that on purpose- and grimaced at his soiled clothing. He was in his sleep clothes and the semen stains were on the inside. This meant something, but his garbled brain couldn’t piece it together.

“You look like you’re in a bit of pain, John, is something wrong?” Sherlock asked, and reached an uncharacteristic hand out to stroke his cheek.

John leaned into the comfort gratefully, and then recoiled in alarm. He’d just had an apparently sexual experience with his flatmate, neither of them were homosexuals, and now he was accepting comfort?

“I… I don’t quite feel myself,” John admitted, and then tried to climb from the bed only to topple to the floor.

“You’re still jumpy, too. That’s odd… you appear to be worse for wear,” Sherlock intoned, “Well, worse than usual after being hung over. Did you take anything last night?”

“M’not sure. Did I?” John asked, knowing Sherlock would be honest with him if he’d dosed John.

“Not that I saw, but I wasn’t with you the entire night. Perhaps a glass of water?”

John’s bladder took that moment to announce itself _painfully_ full, and John groaned.

“Bathroom.”

“Very well,” Sherlock agreed, and helped him to his feet.

John did manage the stagger down the stairs and into the bathroom on his own, for which he was proud, but had barely started pissing when Sherlock flew in behind him and turned on the shower. He then pressed hand to John’s mouth, making the man start and nearly pee on the floor, but once he realized he was holding pills to his mouth he instinctively opened it and took them in, noting that Sherlock’s hand tasted of sweat and something imperceptible. A glass of water was followed and he swallowed greedily.

_What the fuck did I just take? A moment ago I was thinking he slipped me a date rape drug, now I’m accepting unidentified pills from him? How did my military training not kick in, either? Am I so fat and old that I just let someone put their hand over my mouth without reacting?_

“Shower’s warm. Are you just going to stand there studying the porcelain?” Sherlock asked.

John gave himself a shake and stripped off his clothing, deciding the more time he spent with Sherlock the more he’d have a chance to trigger memories of the night before. Sherlock obviously didn’t understand the concept behind a lover’s shower, because he grabbed the soap and scrubbed up while taking up the entire spray. John stood to one side and shivered, but was grateful for the chill as it restored him somewhat. Sherlock switched places with him, then, and John scrubbed himself down while Sherlock stared at him blatantly.

“You’re in very good shape for your age and career,” Sherlock observed, “A bit overweight, but not alarmingly so. I’d expect a larger decline from someone going from military life to a sedentary job at a clinic.”

“Well, I walk a lot,” John replied, blushing in embarrassment. His bit of belly had cost him a large chunk of his ego.

Sherlock stepped forward at that moment and slipped his arms around John’s waist, pressing close to him.

“I’m not trying to criticize you, John,” He murmured into his neck, causing shivers to run up and down John’s body, “I hope you realize what last night meant to me. I’m not… good at this sort of thing. Tell me if I do something wrong so I can make it right.”

“Yeah, sure, maybe not hog the spray,” John answered for something to say, “Most couples wash each other.”

Sherlock’s hand moved to John’s chest and rubbed the soap around.

“Like this?” Sherlock asked, and John was instantly aware of a twitch against his lower back as Sherlock’s arousal made it known.

“Ah, yeah. Like that,” John replied, and then turned spontaneously and pulled the man close.

John breathed Sherlock’s scent in shamelessly. It was something he’d wanted to do when he’d first seen the man alive, but he’d been too reserved. Scent memory was the strongest of all, and John had spent three years missing the smell of Sherlock Holmes. He’d catch his cologne on the tube or in a crowd and feel unaccountably misty-eyed, but nothing compared to the combination of his usual products and the man’s actual body. Before Sherlock had jumped off a building he hadn’t even been aware that he _knew_ what the man’s body smelled like, but after three years of smelling his cologne or soap on other people in passing, John now knew what it was like to truly and agonizingly miss someone.

_Is it so bad? If he did drug me and take advantage, at least he’s back. I can forgive him. Gods, how fucked up is that?_

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John tightly and their lips met. They both tasted of morning breath and Sherlock must have had a cigarette the night before, but neither cared. They lazily explored each other’s mouths before Sherlock pulled away and rested his chin on top of John’s head.

“I never imagined this, did you?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John replied honestly, wondering how it had even _started_ in the first place.

Sherlock exited the shower first, stating he’d put the kettle on, and John got himself out, dried off, and then quickly searched for a container. He dumped a bottle of old pain pills into the trash and used it to finish urinating, having held a bit back for just this purpose. He realized his first few drops would have been more effective, but he hadn’t been sure of being left alone then and he still wasn’t sure Sherlock wouldn’t barge back in. He quickly sealed the container and hid it before dressing and heading out into the living room.

Sherlock had put the kettle on, but hadn’t bothered to even attempt breakfast. Same as usual, then, back to their old lives as though he hadn’t faked his death and vanished. While John made them breakfast, choosing the longest meal to cook that he could think of, he tried to recall the previous day and night.

_He’d come home from the clinic late. He was tired and frustrated. There was Sherlock, just sitting there like the bastard he was with his fancy clothes and a cheery smile._

_“Hello, John.”_

_“Sh-Sherlock?”_

_“Yes, I suppose you’ll be wanting an expla-“ John cut him off by crossing the room quickly and Sherlock jumped up with hands raised, apparently to ward off an attack, “Now, John. Not so fast. Don’t want to kill me now that I’m alive.”_

_“Hold still, you bastard,” John snapped, and gripped his wrist to pull him closer._

_John turned Sherlock’s hand palm up and took his pulse, then checked it again at his neck, then pulled his stethoscope out from under his hat, secured it, and checked the man’s heart and lungs._

_“Would you like me to turn my head and cough?” Sherlock teased._

_“Shut up,” John snapped._

_Once he’d reassured himself the man was alive he turned, paced the room a moment, and then snatched his mobile out of his pocket._

_“Stamford? Yeah, it’s John. Listen, I’ve just had a bit of a shock and I need a drink. Yeah, I know, but it’s a real fucking shock, Mike... Sherlock’s alive.”_

_They’d met at the bar, at which Stamford had tearfully shaken Sherlock’s hand, agreed with John that he was a bastard, and then dove into stupid stories about his students. This was why John had called him. The man was the mellow, dull, opposite of Sherlock and had often soothed John’s chaffed feelings when Sherlock had littered them with abrasions. The three settled down to drink and chatter._

_“Does Lestrade know?” John had asked._

_“No, I came to see you first. I’ll tell him tomorrow after Mrs. Hudson. I’d like you present for that, don’t want to give her a heart attack.”_

_“Yeah, sure,” John replied numbly._

Everything after that was a blur, though he had some recollection of horrible nightmares involving Afghanistan and a few of Sherlock falling in horrid slow motion with him unable to reach him in time to cushion his blow with his own body. Those dreams were all familiar, old companions for John; but in light of his current predicament he had to wonder if there wasn’t something more sinister about them. Had he had a flashback? He’d never had them, but he’d spoken to military friends who had and knew they could cause someone to do something utterly uncharacteristic.

Sherlock’s warm arm encircled John’s waist and his other hand wrapped around John’s own, calmly flipping the omelet that had just started to burn.

“Sorry,” John muttered.

“You’re still in shock,” Shelrock murmured, “John I never apologized; I feel I must. I never expected you to be so hurt by my actions. Of course, I never realized you harbored any kind of feelings for me that weren’t platonic, either. I’ve been rather blind, haven’t I? I suppose it really _isn’t_ my area, hmm?”

Sherlock chuckled but John didn’t answer. He _hadn’t_ harbored any kind of sexual attraction to Sherlock, and now he didn’t know how to respond. Sherlock took his chin and turned his face to look at him. Sherlock’s breath smelled of his tea now, sweetened with sugar and a perfect counterpoint to John’s own minty breath.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows drawn in concern, “Is something wrong? You seem unsettled, but I’m having trouble picking out why. Is this about your sexuality?”

“Yes,” John replied easily, because part of it was and he knew lying to Sherlock was useless. Best stick to the truth.

“Sexuality is something I’ve always thought one shouldn’t define,” Sherlock advised, “We are what we are, and sometimes what we are and what we enjoy changes. You wouldn’t be shocked and appalled to find your preference for food altering as you aged, so why your sexual appetite?”

“That seems… reasonable,” John nodded.

“Quite,” Sherlock assured, then guided his hand to place the omelet on a plate, “Now that’s two omelets, two pancakes, two glasses of orange juice, two glasses of milk, two pieces of toast, and three strips of bacon a person. I’m fairly certain that the only way you can stall further is to bake muffins. Shall I get out the ingredients, or would you care to join me for breakfast?”

John smirked and elbowed him, which Sherlock took with good nature as he snatched up his own overflowing plates and headed for the table in the sitting room they usually ate at. John turned and grimaced at the chemistry equipment that had already been spread across his- their- kitchen table. He doubted he could manage more than toast, but since Sherlock was behaving in such a clingy manor and John still wasn’t sure what had transpired, he decided to join him and make an effort of it.

_Back to usual, indeed._

It was several hours before he could sneak past Sherlock’s hunched form in the kitchen/laboratory and back into the bathroom to retrieve his urine sample. His intention was to take it into the clinic and get it tested for date rape drugs while claiming it was a patient’s.

The container was gone.

 

<http://www.idph.state.il.us/about/womenshealth/factsheets/date.htm>

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/6578.html)

 


	2. Chapter 2

John stood there in the bathroom hyperventilating; glad he’d thought to shut the door first. There was no longer any doubt. Sherlock had drugged him and then taken advantage- he couldn’t stand to use the word rape at the moment- and had now succeeded in removing the only evidence short of eyewitnesses at the bar. Surely if someone had seen him slip something into John’s drink they’d have done something, so John was now utterly alone in this knowledge. His first thought was to pretend nothing had happened and go on as usual, quietly looking for a new flat and disappearing from Sherlock’s life. His second was a pang of pain at the thought of never seeing the detective again and the realization that he deeply cared for the man despite his transgression. The third was that he ought to call Lestrade and perhaps sound out some help as quietly as possible.

John slipped from the bathroom to his own room upstairs; relieved that Sherlock’s experiment was taking up all of his attention. Once there he pulled out his phone and dialed his detective friend.

“Greg, hey, mate. It’s been a while.”

“John! How goes it?”

“Ah… bit shocking lately, actually,” John replied honestly, “But you’ll find more out about that later. I have a few questions for you, actually. Professional ones.”

“Oh? What’s up?”

“A patient of mine’s been raped but she’s refusing to go to the police, obviously I can’t report it since she’s not a minor. She refused to give a urine sample or anything. Just came in for blood tests for diseases and to see if she was pregnant. Fact is, I think she’s in shock and might want to press charges later. Aside from a pregnancy, is there any way to prove rape after the fact?”

“Even a pregnancy might not do it,” Lestrade sighed, “Fact is there’s no evidence that it wasn’t consensual if a rape kits not been done. If she does end up with an STD and it’s one that can be traced back to the person who gave it to her, well then I’ve heard of some judges sentencing the man to some trivial punishment for knowingly spreading disease, but that’s about it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, it’s a touchy thing. About half of rapes aren’t reported. This your first run-in?”

“No, but it’s the first time I’ve had such a belligerent patient,” John laughed dryly, thinking of how awful he was when sick.

“Well, here’s hoping she’s tough enough to heal, because the aftermath of this sort of thing can unhinge even the strongest people. I guess all you can do is be there for her as her doctor. She might end up depressed or engaging in risky behavior after the fact. I’ve seen some sweet innocent, church-going girls go on to become prostitutes after a rape. It warps a person.”

John swallowed, his mouth inexplicably dry. He was fully aware of his own irrational thoughts. He wasn’t going to leave. He’d been accommodating Sherlock so far, and was likely to continue to do so. He could easily see himself simply dropping into a relationship with the man; some odd form of Stockholm Syndrome.

“John?” Lestrade asked of his silence, “You there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Just… worried.”

“Listen, try not to get too involved, okay? I know how kind-hearted you are- bleeding heart and all. Especially since… just don’t let yourself get torn up over this. Her pain isn’t yours, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Listen, what are your plans today? I think I might be stopping by for other… reasons.”

“Ah, I can do lunch? Or is this another professional thing?”

“Lunch is good, I think. Just let me run it past… my guest.”

“Your… guest…”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not at the clinic?”

“No.”

“John, something going on?”

John grinned to himself, picturing Lestrade’s relief and joy at finding Sherlock alive… and outrage.

“Yeah, but I can’t tell you now. See you at noon?”

“Sure, see you then.”

“Okay, I’ll text you if plans change.”

John headed out into the kitchen and tried to get Sherlock’s attention for a full ten minutes.

“Sherlock! Damn it! People still think you’re dead!”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinked up at him owlishly, “I’d forgotten.”

“Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?”

“Right. Mrs. Hudson first based on geography and likelihood of discovering my presence accidentally.”

“Yeah, well, I set up a lunch with Lestrade, that okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll text him that we- I- will be there.”

John pulled out his phone and started to turn away when a flash of orange caught his eye. He glanced down at the medicine bottle sitting on the table and snatched it up without thinking. It was empty, but the label was his own old bottle of prescription pain pills, the same he’d stored his urine sample in. John’s eyes flew to Sherlock in alarm, but he was looking back into his microscope and hadn’t seemed aware of John’s movements at all.

John placed the container back down and backed away, keeping his breathing carefully under control. Now was not the time to panic.

“I’ll just… fetch Mrs. Hudson then, shall I? Give her warning first, of course.”

“Mm, yes, of course,” Sherlock replied.

John nodded and headed downstairs to fetch Mrs. Hudson, taking a few steadying breaths before knocking on her door.

“Hello, John, how are you, dear?” Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly.

“Better than usual,” John replied, focusing on his feelings of relief at Sherlock’s return, “I have a rather shocking but wonderful surprise for you upstairs… and I mean shocking. You’ll want to brace yourself.”

“Oh? Are you engaged again?” Mrs. Hudson asked hopefully, “I heard a man’s voice last night, I’d hoped…”

John winced at her reference to an engagement. His short and painful marriage to Mary Morstan was a sore topic, but he brushed it aside for now.

“No, but it’s to do with the voice you heard. I mean it, now, brace yourself for a bit of a terrible shock.”

John led Mrs. Hudson upstairs, repeatedly telling her to take calming breaths until she was quite insulted. Then he opened the door to the kitchen and led her in.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson gasped as Sherlock turned around in his chair to smile at her.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock replied cheerily, “You’re looking well. I suppose John braced y-“

John caught her as she fainted and Sherlock was at her side in an instant, concern etched on his face. John checked her pulse and then had Sherlock help him get her to the couch.

“She’s alright?”

“Yes, just shocked.”

“I told you to _brace_ her!”

Sherlock snapped at him angrily, and John flinched as fear curled in his belly. It was an unfamiliar feeling and John hated it instantly. Sherlock was supposed to be his friend- his best friend. What hung between them was unnerving John and he caught sight of his hand shaking.

Sherlock saw it too and dropped to his knees beside the couch, clutching John’s hand tightly, “John? What is it? Should we call an ambulance?”

“No, she’ll be fine. I’m just a bit… unnerved myself. It’s unreal seeing you here again.”

“I’d hope it’s a pleasant feeling, not a bad one, but you don’t seem happy at all.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John replied genuinely, “I’m still processing. I’ll be fine. We all will. Just don’t expect Greg to take it so well.”

They both grinned at that last bit and then Mrs. Hudson stirred. What followed was tearful and required much holding and rocking, which John was obliged to do most of since Sherlock couldn’t sit still long enough to comfort the woman he’d grievously wronged. In the end she stuffed him full of sweets as a way of comforting herself and then they headed for lunch with Lestrade.

“Does _everyone_ feel food is a source of correction for emotional woes?” Sherlock ranted, “I shan’t eat for a year.”

John couldn’t help but grin at that, but then started to worry about Lestrade.

“We should probably meet him in his office, first. He’s likely to make a scene if we meet him at the restaurant.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock nodded, giving John a scathing look, “Which is why I insisted on leaving early.”

John glanced at his phone, noted the time, and blushed a bit.

“Sorry, wasn’t paying attention.”

Lestrade took it as well as could be expected, which meant that John had to pry him off of Sherlock with some rather elaborate holds that he hadn’t employed in years.

“I’ll kill you, you bastard boffin!”

“Bastard boffin?” Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade paused, grinned, and the room erupted in mood lightening laughter. Once calmed, Lestrade sobered and gave him a miserable look.

“Why? Gods, I know I teased you, but did you really think I didn’t care at all? I wouldn’t have stuck by you through the drugs if I hadn’t.”

“I knew you… cared,” Sherlock replied awkwardly, “I had no choice. Moriarty had assassins after you, John, and Mrs. Hudson. I was obliged to play by his rules until I could… isolate them. I’ve spent the last three years in the underground using various disguises to ensure my enemies were all either arrested or… well, you don’t need to know that last bit.”

Sherlock smiled and John shivered. Was this the source of Sherlock’s new behavior? Had he been corrupted by the world he’d infiltrated in order to protect those he cared about? Who was next? Would Sherlock systematically harm them all in one way or another? He didn’t seem to harbor any guilt. Did he feel any? Or was he, like a true sociopath, convinced that his actions were justifiable?

“John?” Sherlock called gently, “You’ve gone off again, what’s wrong?”

John’s head jerked up and he saw both Sherlock’s concern and Lestrade’s confusion at Sherlock’s gentle tone.

“Nothing. Sorry. Just… still processing.”

Sherlock stood and slipped an arm around John’s shoulders and gave Lestrade a pleasant smile, “My return is not the only pleasant surprise. You can finally collect on all those bets: John and I are a couple now.”

John forced a grin onto his face and slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist. He had no idea how he was going to manage a relationship with the man who had… John couldn’t even put it into words in his mind. Instead he leaned into Sherlock and let his scent wash over him, content that his friend was back- even if changed- and that his life would have meaning again- even if altered.


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Drugged Ch 3

John spent lunch with Sherlock and Lestrade in a pleasant enough mood. He was at first uncomfortable with, and then increasingly pleased by, Sherlock’s repeated physical contact. It was pleasant for more than just the assurance that the man was alive and well, he genuinely found himself thrilled at the constant attention. Sherlock had previously ignored him for days on end. Now, even when studying someone or something else, he seemed to lean towards John as a plant would towards sunlight. It was a heady feeling, being a source of interest for the genius he’d admired for so long and missed achingly for even longer.

_I can do this. I can be with Sherlock. I’ll make it work and I’ll help him heal. He’ll be the good person I know he was before his fall. It will just take time and patience. I had a good influence on him before- everyone said so- and I can do that again; remind him that he is human and subject to morals and laws. In the mean time, I’ll just have to keep him in my sight and stop him doing something awful… again._

Sherlock nodded to John’s food, “You barely ate breakfast, you aren’t hungry?”

“That’s my line,” John laughed.

“I’ve been stuffed with food all morning. Did you want something else?”

“No, I’m fine,” John laughed, “But thank you for your concern, it’s… refreshing.”

“I won’t promise to be so regularly. I’d only end up breaking it. You know how I am,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Yes, I recall,” John chuckled.

“So how did this even _happen_?” Lestrade asked, his face amused, “Or don’t I want to know?”

“Ah,” John flushed.

“It was a bit of a surprise to me too, actually,” Sherlock replied, “John, Stamford, and I went out for drinks to calm John’s nerves after I revealed myself as alive to him. We got superbly drunk and went home rather late. John woke me in the early morning hours shouting at the top of his lungs. I went upstairs to see what was wrong and found him nearly hysterical.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows went up and he gave John a surprised look.

“Ah…” John added nervously.

“Apparently he’d had a horrible dream,” Sherlock continued, ”and was having trouble coming out of it, a bit of a night terror I suppose. I ended up holding him until he calmed lest he harm himself accidentally with his theatrics.”

“Theatrics! Now hang on!” John snapped.

“Oh, really, John, it’s not uncommon,” Sherlock snorted, “You had quite a scare, after all.”

John sighed and looked heavenward for comfort, but none was forthcoming.

“So one thing led to another, did it?” Lestrade grinned.

“I suppose that’s a decent enough inelegant summary,” Sherlock frowned, “John and I both found ourselves aroused and embraced the situation.”

John turned that over in his head and recalled the fact his sleep pants had been on once more. His memory was a blur, but he thought Sherlock’s had been on as well that morning. It seemed logical that they’d simply rutted with their clothes on until completion. An awkward drunken fumble, indeed. Had he misjudged Sherlock? Was he unaware of the drugs in John’s system? If so, why take his urine sample? And why behave as though they’d had a monumental sexual encounter of pornographic and romantic proportions? Then again, Sherlock’s words that morning indicated he had little to no sexual experience; perhaps to him dry humping _had_ been profound.

John took his first opportunity to ask, namely once they got home after lunch.

“Sherlock… I realize it’s a bit odd to ask now that we’re… a couple, but… how many other partners have you had, exactly?”

Sherlock avoided John’s gaze, “I’m not comfortable discussing my sexual history. I am disease free, if that’s what your concern is.”

“Well, that’s comforting. I am, too, by the way. What I meant, though, was to figure out how far you’ve gone with a man. I haven’t, by the way. Aside for last night, that is.”

“I’m aware of your inexperience,” Sherlock replied, and busied himself with John’s laptop in clear avoidance of the subject, “Molly was aware of my deception, by the way, so there’s no need to inform her of my survival. I’m going to see if I can get into her lab today. I have some work that is rather urgent.”

A horrid thought occurred to John, “Did all your past relationships start like ours has?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Did you… did you drug and rape them all?” John asked, his mind wrapping around the idea he might not be the first… and if not, then what had happened to the rest?

Sherlock’s head slowly lifted and he levered John with a very blank stare. After a good ten minutes that had John sweating and squirming uncomfortably Sherlock finally replied.

“No.”

“Okay. Good. That’s… good.”

Sherlock looked back down at the laptop and John all but fled the sitting room.

“Fancy a cuppa?” He called out, ignoring the way his voice cracked.

Sherlock didn’t reply so John only made one cup and leaned against the counter to sip it quite hot. The burn soothed him in ways the beverage itself could not. His hand was shaking again. He flexed it, gave it an accusatory stare, and then took a steadying breath. Once his drink was done he headed out into the living room with the thought in his mind that he was fully committed to this… whatever it was.

John sat down beside Sherlock on the couch and scooted closer to him than he normally would. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and looked over his shoulder.

“Announcing to the world at large that you’re alive?” He asked upon seeing Sherlock’s website on the screen.

“Not yet. There will be repercussions. Mycroft has already alerted the Yard to my return and provided them with the evidence of my innocence and Richard Brook’s guilt. Once my name is cleared- with a very pubic display if Mycroft has his way- I will be able to resume my usual activities without hesitation. I look forward to more cases, don’t you? It’s been non-stop action for me these last few years, but it isn’t the same as _mental_ stimulation.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed it,” John replied honestly.

Sherlock’s arm slipped around his waist and he was relieved to find no surge of fear or anxiety well up in him. It felt natural, right. Sherlock turned his head and studied John quietly a moment.

“How are you feeling? Sick still? Headache? Any other symptoms?”

“No, I’m much better,” John replied, blushing at his concern, “Tea did me good. You want some?”

“I have to get down to St. Bart’s. I dislike the idea of leaving you alone after what you’ve been through. Come with me.”

John nodded and stood to put his shoes on, feeling a glow that the man was so worried about him. It was really rather touching.

_I’m touched in the head, is what I am. Gods, he drugs me, has his way with me, and shows concern and I’m… flattered? How long has he been working up to this that I’m already brainwashed and waiting for him to take advantage?_

“Sherlock, was any of this planned? From before you jumped?”

“Gods, no,” Sherlock scoffed, “I told you, I never imagined this before. That doesn’t, however, mean I’m not prepared to enjoy it now it has. I never planned to take a lover of any kind, but you’re perfect for me John. I need you.”

He delivered all this in his usual combination of caustic tone and general statement of fact. John blinked a moment, smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgment of the truth behind his otherwise blandly spoken words.

“I need you, too.”

“That much is obvious,” Sherlock replied, as a cryptic look flickered across his face.

Sherlock placed a gentle hand at the small of John’s back and he allowed himself to be ushered out of the flat and down to the pavement below. Sherlock hailed a cab as though he owned them, as he always did, and John enjoyed the feel of his long fingers clasped with his on the ride over.

_Sherlock’s right about sexuality: it isn’t important. This is. The way I feel right and safe with him. Bugger what happened last night. I’m putting it out of my head. Sherlock would never hurt me. He likely has a reason for it all and he’ll give me some great reveal soon enough. It will make sense then, and until then I’m just going to trust him. If I believed in him through the Moriarty/Brook mess, when I had evidence in front of me that he was lying to me, then I can do it now when I don’t know he has. I know him, I have faith in him, and I understand him better than anyone. If he’s changed, I’ll accommodate it. That’s all there is to it._

Molly stammered an apology out to John when he arrived and he swallowed down his flare of anger at her having kept such a secret from him.

“It’s fine,” John choked out, “I know you had to help him, and I know how… persuasive he can be.”

Molly nodded and gave John an awkward hug, which he tolerated. Then she fluttered over to help Sherlock with his work. John set about amusing himself by catching up on some computer time in the lab; googling this and that until he’d quite strained his eyes.

“That’s it then,” Sherlock’s voice made him jump, “I’ve got all I need from here. Shall we? I’d like to take you out to dinner and give you a proper date.”

“Really?” John asked in surprise.

“Mm, I was thinking Angelo’s for old time’s sake.”

“Sentimental,” John laughed teasingly, “I’d like that. Let me go home and change first? We don’t all walk around dressed for a first date.”

Sherlock smirked and led him home where John nervously put on his nicest clothes short of a suit and tie and joined Sherlock downstairs. He was unaccountably giddy and happily put an arm around the man’s waist during the cab ride over. Angelo was reduced to tears at the sight of Sherlock, who patted his back awkwardly and mentioned sanitation concerns until the man agreed to go to the bathroom and wash his face and hands. Their meal was not only free but also lavish, including free wine and an offer to shut down the restaurant so they could have privacy. Sherlock accepted the wine and declined the latter.

“Dates are supposed to be public, I think, though I’ve no idea why such a ridiculous practice is still in place now that society no longer places obscene value on marrying virgins. Well… not _our_ society.”

“I dunno,” John smirked, “I rather like showing off my handsome date.”

Sherlock smiled at the compliment and John counted himself still a… well, ladies man wouldn’t apply, but the implication was still there.

Their dinner ended with another snug cab ride home and then a nervous ascent to Sherlock’s room, which John had left untouched for all this time.

“Mrs. Hudson has dusted, I see. Good. My bed is much more comfortable than yours, and the couch last night was happily abandoned when you called for me. Now, then… lets see if I can’t make you call for me in a different way,” Sherlock purred.

John allowed the first kiss, not leaning into it as his nerves almost overwhelmed him, but once again the _rightness_ of it all struck him and he slipped his arms around Sherlock’s lean hips. They fell into bed together, licking and nipping as they tugged each other’s clothes off. John gasped and rolled them over the second Sherlock palmed his cock. He was so achingly _hard_ it was difficult to believe he’d climaxed the night before. With Sherlock beneath him John felt more in control and sure of his actions and he explored the detectives body with eager caresses.

Sherlock melted beneath him, gasping and wriggling at every touch. His eyes were wide and his pupils blown. His look of amazement and wonder at John’s every stroke had them both panting in desire. John wasn’t sure how to initiate sex between two men, so he did what was familiar and stroked Sherlock’s cock slowly and firmly with one hand while gently relieving his own pressure by pressing his cock against the man’s thigh. Sherlock’s jaw fell open and his eyes rolled in his head as he moaned throatily.

“It’s illogical that this should feel so much better than my own hand,” Sherlock gasped.

“It’s illogical that we waited this long to feel it,” John admitted.

“You weren’t gay.”

“You weren’t available.”

“You feel so good!” Sherlock gasped, arching his back and demanding more.

John gave it, clasping both their cocks in hand and stroking them together. They arched and rubbed against each other, grunting and panting as they chased their orgasms. John could feel the hot coil in his belly tightening and telling him he was close to orgasm. A glance down at Sherlock’s flushed face showed him the man was also close to overwhelmed. He leaned down and captured his lips in a hungry kiss. Sherlock grunted and his cock pulsed in John’s hand, their stomach’s both painted with hot release. John groaned as the slickness eased his movements and brought an entirely new sensation into the mix. He came a few eager strokes later and sighed in bliss as his climax drained all tension from his body.

John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, still leaning heavily on his knees and right arm until he found himself able to move again. He rolled off and collapsed beside the detective who was smiling up at the ceiling with a look of wonder on his face.

“That was…” Sherlock breathed.

“Good, I hope,” John laughed.

“Quite, yes, thank you.”

John laughed again, “You’re welcome!”

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/7047.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Drugged Ch 4

Lestrade called John the next morning while he was watching the morning news and Sherlock was out somewhere without telling him where.

“John, I think you’d better fill me in.”

“On what?” John asked in confusion, flipping the telly off.

“On why Sherlock’s investigating a rape after you called me asking about a rape victim _from your flat_.”

John’s stomach plummeted and all he could think of was how Sherlock always went on about some criminals _wanting_ to be caught: either due to pride or guilt.

_He’s setting himself up!_ John thought, and then tried to stall for time to think up a rational excuse.

“That’s odd, he told me he didn’t have any cases on. He must have taken it this morning. He was gone when I woke.”

“Fuck’s sake, John, I’m his _friend_. Level with me. Was Sherlock raped while he was off saving our lives?” Lestrade asked, his voice pained.

“No! Oh, gods, no. Honestly, Greg, I’ve no idea what he’s researching. Maybe tell me what he’s said to you while I look at the website and see if I can piece together what he’s up to?”

Lestrade sighed, “Your rape victim, John? Just tell me the truth.”

“Not Sherlock. I’m not even sure she was raped, honestly,” John fumbled, trying to cover his tracks, “I mean, the more I talked to her the more it seemed like it was a plea for attention.”

There was a moment of silence and then, “That doesn’t sound like the John Watson I know, at all. You don’t discount people. Ever.”

John swallowed and tried to think up another excuse.

“Is it Harry?” Lestrade guessed.

“No,” John replied automatically, and then winced. That would have been the perfect damn excuse! He’d be seeing Harry at his flat rather than the clinic if something catastrophic had happened.

“Then what’s going on? He asked me to run a trace on ketamine buyers – legal and otherwise- in the area,” Lestrade insisted.

“Ketamine is a psychiatric and medical drug,” John informed automatically, “It treats bipolar and is used as an anesthetic or to treat asthma.”

“It’s also used by veterinarians, but my concern is that it’s also one of the three most commonly used _date rape drugs_.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know all that. Couldn’t he be researching something else? Date rape sounds a bit pedestrian for Sherlock. I’d buy him going after something animal related. Maybe a stolen horse?”

Lestrade was silent a moment, and then, “You’re dating Sherlock.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Ketamine is a date rape drug.”

“Apparently, but that’s not it’s only use.”

“You’ve had pain before, are a doctor, and likely have reason to keep ketamine in the house.”

“Well, not really,” John replied, “I mean, it’s got specific uses but I’ve never prescribed it myself; there are better drugs on the market.”

“You’re defending and protecting Sherlock while trying to hide a rape victim from me.”

“I am not... oh, this is just ridiculous! Nothing is going on!” John snapped.

“John, have you been raped?”

John’s mouth clicked shut.

“John… fucking hell… did _Sherlock_ rape you?”

John panicked and hung up the phone. He stood and paced the flat for a moment and then frantically texted Sherlock.

**Lestrade is on to you. Where are you? – JW**

**Following a lead. Stay at home. Do not go out. A mistake has been made. – SH**

**Whose mistake? – JW**

**Mine. – SH**

**I don’t blame you. I care about you. Please don’t do this. – JW**

**I care about you as well. Everything is going to be okay. Go downstairs and sit with Mrs. Hudson. – SH**

**Don’t leave me again. Please. – JW**

**Never. – SH**

John sighed, deciding that was as good a promise he’d get from Sherlock that he wasn’t going to turn himself in. He went downstairs and watched telly with Mrs. Hudson until the building’s door swung open. John bolted for Mrs. Hudson’s door, out into the entryway, and froze in place.

Sherlock had a man held firmly by the arm and the second John laid eyes on him his head spun and he toppled to the floor, nearly loosing consciousness.

“John, do you know this man?” Sherlock demanded, apparently unconcerned that John was slumped to the floor and leaning against the wall.

“Yes.”

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/7421.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Drugged Ch 5

Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for the look on John’s face; certainly not the aching pain, betrayed, utterly destroyed one that faced him the moment John laid eyes on him. For a moment it took his breath away, leaving him to realize how beautiful and fragile the looks of happiness, amusement, and amazement were. Sherlock swore in that moment that he would _never_ take John for granted again.

Then the next moment John was rushing at him, and he recalled another time the man had done so and was out of his seat avoiding being hit. John, however, wasn’t looking for vengeance: he was looking for comfort. John’s hands shook as he checked Sherlock’s pulse, heart, breathing; Sherlock tried to make a joke of it, but the man wasn’t amused. No smile. How he _ached_ to see John smile.

It was the rush of guilt that followed that thought that made him agree to go out drinking with John and Stamford. John wanted to get pissed to sooth his fazzled nerves and wanted Sherlock nearby to keep reaffirming that he was alive. Sherlock wanted to drown the realization that he’d really and truly hurt his friend by letting him think he was dead for three years.

_I should have sent word. Let him know somehow. Gotten Mycroft to pass a message along. Anything but leave him alone for so long._

Sherlock watched John get sloshed and joined him despite the fact he detested the dull wits that alcohol left him with; cocaine was much preferred because it at least gave him the _illusion_ that his faculties were not blunted. When John staggered to the bathroom saying he felt ill he left him go, but soon began to worry. He’d been gone a while, and he’d looked a bit green when he’d left. Picturing his distraught blogger passed out and drowning in the toilet (the perils of having studied more than one case with that exact event) he hurried into the loo in time to find John being spectacularly sick all over the middle of the floor.

Sherlock grimaced and was about to leave when the man staggered backwards and crashed into one of the doors. He gurgled something unintelligible and pointed to a nearby open window. Sherlock blinked at it and _something_ important niggled at his mind, but it was moving at such a sluggish pace.

_This must be the way normal people see the world. How utterly uninspiring. Clearly John is a step above that… and normally I would be an entire ladder above that. This? Gods, I can’t even recall how to put a sentence together._

“Sher’ck, m’sick,” John whinged.

“Lets get you home, then,” Sherlock decided.

John nodded miserably and staggered to the sink to wash up before leaning heavily on Sherlock as they left the bar. John seemed to be getting increasingly more ill as they traveled, moaning and asking why the cab was purple. The cabbie asked him several times if he was okay and gave Sherlock an odd look.

“He’s fine, fine, just more to drink than what’s good for him,” Sherlock grunted, shoving some money into the man’s hand.

The cabbie was not to be deterred and insisted he see both Sherlock’s and John’s wallets to confirm this was in fact their home.

“Of course it’s his home, what do you think I am, a blogger-napper?” Sherlock asked, but the idiot didn’t know what a blogger-napper was and demanded the ID’s anyway.

Sherlock tugged John’s wallet out while the blogger in question slumped against the door and the driver peered at it.

“Sorry, mate. There’s this rapist been on the loose for a few years now. We’ve all sworn to make sure anyone acting off gets to the right address. Just doing our civic duty.”

“Did you hear that, John?” Sherlock asked, squinting at his disoriented companion, “The cabbies are united to fight crime! Gods, what has the world come to in my absence?”

Sherlock hauled John upstairs and helped the sobbing man wash out his mouth properly, undress, shoved him into his sleep clothes, and then into bed.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John wailed, clinging to him miserably, “Don’t leave me. Don’t let him get me.”

“No one’s going to get you, John,” Sherlock soothed, “Moriarty’s dead, his web destroyed, and I’m not going anywhere ever again.”

Sherlock tucked John into his bed and made sure he was safely on his side before staggering downstairs. He sneezed the moment he opened his own bedroom door, but saw his room was unaltered besides a horrific layer of dust that proved just how much Mrs. Hudson had missed him if she hadn’t even been able to tidy up. Sherlock made it to the couch after downing a couple of glasses of water to help with the toxicity.

Sometime in the early morning hours Sherlock heard a terrified scream come from upstairs. It was alarming enough to have him on his feet and halfway up the stairs before he even registered being upright. He flung open the door to John’s room and gaped at what he saw. John was grasping a pillow to his chest, sobbing and rocking back and forth. He seemed convinced it was Sherlock and was begging him not to die.

“John, John, my dear doctor, I’m right here, I’m fine!” Sherlock insisted, his guilt coming back tenfold.

Instead of being consoled John became even more incensed, toppling off the bed and screaming in horror as if something were after him when he tangled in the bedclothes. He pulled his gun from the bedside table and Sherlock tackled him in fear he’d hurt or even kill one of them. He wrestled the gun from John and pinned him down, shouting his name to draw him out of his waking nightmare.

Finally John stilled beneath him, blinking up at Sherlock in apparent confusion.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John, it’s alright. You had a nightmare, or a night _terror_ , rather. Are you feeling better?”

Sherlock went to shift off of him and was alarmed to find something prodding him. Sherlock froze in fear. It had been so long since he felt another man’s desire against him and John he had categorized as safe ages ago. For _him_ to show lust for Sherlock after all this time…

John moaned at Sherlock’s unintentional pressure against his erection and wriggled up against him.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John moaned, and the detective swallowed his fear down.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock urged, “Back to bed with you.”

Sherlock helped John stand and pushed him back into bed.

“Don’t leave me, Sherlock. He’ll come back and kill me. I’ve seen his face.”

“Hush, John, no one’s going to hurt you, but I’ll stay till you fall asleep if you like.”

“I love you,” John insisted again, “I’d let you touch me, but not him.”

“That’s… sweet,” Sherlock chuckled, “I suppose I should be filming this on my phone to show you later. Isn’t that what drunk friends do?”

“Yeah, that or have one-offs with ugly women they regret later,” John informed with a solemn nod.

“Well, it’s a good thing we avoided that,” Sherlock laughed.

“You have _no idea_ ,” John insisted with wide eyes.

Sherlock laughed again and John tugged at him, “Hold me.”

For a moment Sherlock recalled the feel of John’s erection against him, but this time it was without the usual surge of fear that the attention of men usually brought to him.

“Okay, if you like,” Sherlock replied, and slipped into the bed with him.

John latched his arms around Sherlock and pressed close. Once again Sherlock felt his arousal and once more he waited for the fear to well up inside of him. When it wasn’t forthcoming he snuggled back and John’s lips pressed firmly against his. Sherlock moaned into the kiss and felt the impossible: his own member stirring to life.

How long had it been? How many years since he last touched himself? He despised the action and only took to it when the ache wouldn’t leave his loins of its own volition via nocturnal emissions. Now he felt his hips jerking forward on their own and the minty breath from John’s mouth was teasing his throat as the man scooted lower to line their cocks up and pressed his face against Sherlock’s shoulder. John was moaning his name, his hard cock sending bursts of pleasure up Sherlock’s own with every sharp thrust. Sherlock was overwhelmed, and when John’s hand grasped his buttocks it wasn’t terror but passion that made him cry out and spill his seed into his pants. John wasn’t far behind, groaning and then stilling.

Sherlock lay there for a moment, stunned beyond belief. He’d just had sex with a man, with _John_. Someone with whom he was certain he couldn’t live without. He felt no fear, no terror, no resurgent memories of hands pinning him down and diamond hard shafts being thrust into his body from both ends, all while he wept at the pain and the loss of his innocence. John had done the inexplicable, the utterly improbable: John had healed him and shown him he could feel pleasure again.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, and let the fog of sleep take him over.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock had set up his chemistry equipment as quickly as he could, glad it had been in boxes and therefore less dusty than his poor room had been. Of course, his room could come later. Now that he and John were ‘together’ he could always sleep in _his_ room, despite the miserable hard bed he foolishly bothered with. John had been jittery that morning, trying in vain to deal with the re-definition of his sexuality. Sherlock tried his best to console him and shared his personal views, being careful not to mention that his own sexuality had been nonexistent for so long; he didn’t want John to think he was a freak for being repulsed by sex… or for having been gang raped in Uni. He doubted John would be the sort to think less of him for either, but he wouldn’t risk anything now that he had such an ideal relationship in his grasp.

He couldn’t believe the incompetent Yarders hadn’t managed to catch _one man_ in three years time! Sherlock started going over his samples from the rape case he’d left hanging when he’d jumped off St. Bart’s, but quickly realized he was out of iodine. Frowning, Sherlock searched the bathroom and found a container of urine stashed in the cabinet under the sink, far in the back. It was unlabeled and Sherlock didn’t recall putting it there, but it was fairly likely it was from this particular case. Perhaps he’d cleaned out an old container of John’s medicine from when he’d had psychosomatic issues and used that to store some of his own urine for comparison. That sounded like something he’d do, and then delete because it wasn’t important enough when the shit hit the proverbial fan.

Sherlock carried it back to his work area, emptied it into a proper sample container, labeled it with a question mark and cleaned out John’s medicine bottle. The good doctor could be temperamental about things that were his and might be upset with Sherlock if he saw it with urine in it; since he was going to make an effort in his new relationship minding personal space was a good start. His concern for his flatmates feelings proved accurate as the man seemed distraught at the site of the bottle and snatched it up to inspect it. Sherlock ignored him, hoping he had washed enough of the urine smell out to not upset him. John put the bottle down and went to the bathroom without a word, so he must not have been too upset.

John went upstairs after that and Sherlock briefly thought about going to check on him, but the mystery sample turned out to be fresh rather than several years old. Now that _was_ a mystery. Why would a fresh urine sample be hidden in their bathroom? It certainly wasn’t John’s; he had no reason for it, so why was it there and why had he deleted its existence from his mind in the last 24 hours?

John and the requirements of a social life interrupted Sherlock’s deductions. Such things were tedious but necessary, especially if he wanted to keep John happy and Mrs. Hudson from having a heart attack. He got on with life and exalted in being able to hold John’s hand or put an arm around him without his skin crawling. He introduced them as a couple and was rewarded by John being affectionate towards him… for the most part. Sometimes he would shy away or suddenly drift into his own thoughts. Sherlock tried to be supportive and consoling, helping John to adjust to their relationship. He could understand his shock, Sherlock was more than a bit thrown himself and he hadn’t had to redefine himself.

Of course, the real shock were John’s questions when they got home. He must have let something slip; shown that he was uncomfortable with physical contact perhaps or not performed some necessary relationship oriented task. John, of course, tried to make Sherlock feel better by mentioning his own inexperience, but Sherlock was flustered and lashed out. Then John said the unthinkable.

“Did all your past relationships start like ours has?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Did you… did you drug and rape them all?”

Sherlock slowly raised his eyes to John’s and saw a look of sorrow and pain in his eyes. He clearly didn’t want to believe his own question, yet something had compelled him to imply that _Sherlock_ had _raped_ him. Then it all clicked and Sherlock’s mind shot backwards to the night before.

The bathroom.

John’s hand in his mouth- inducing vomiting.

John’s face flushed and his clothing disheveled.

Two buttons missing from his button down.

The stall open to the right, a smear of blood on the wall- preserved evidence.

John pointing to the window- blood on the sill.

Window open.

John begging Sherlock to keep him safe.

John telling him he’d seen the man’s face.

John holding onto Sherlock and trembling in his arms.

The next morning John had wondered if he’d been drugged, but his memory was gone. If the same drug had been used on him that had been used on the other victims his memory was likely completely gone. He thought Sherlock had drugged and raped him… and he was sticking by him despite it. Hell, it was holding him together because he couldn’t stop caring about his friend. Sherlock felt so many emotions warring within him at once that he was rendered immobile and simply stared at John for several minutes. When John began to squirm he recalled the doctor had asked him a question.

“No.”

“Okay. Good. That’s… good.”

Sherlock looked back down at the laptop and tried to quell the urge to seek out and kill the man who had harmed his… boyfriend? Was John even with him willingly? _Had_ it been rape? John had been drugged. True, arousal wasn’t a common reaction to a date rape drug (if it was the drug he thought then hallucinations were more likely) but it _was_ an understandable psychological reaction to having your long lost friend return from the dead and then being drunk and scared.

Sherlock texted Lestrade and told him to get Anderson down to the pub they’d been at last night and collect evidence from the bathroom there.

_If they haven’t already washed it up. So much time lost!_

When John returned from the kitchen, he had once more composed himself and his behavior answered at least one of Sherlock’s questions as he placed himself inside Sherlock’s personal space and bussed his cheek. Sherlock’s heart warmed and then twisted painfully in reminder that John was _hurting_ right now. He had to fix this, and catching the rapist was the first step. For now John was dealing, he could help him heal later.

“Announcing to the world at large that you’re alive?” John asked upon seeing Sherlock’s website on the screen.

“Not yet. There will be repercussions. Mycroft has already alerted the Yard to my return and provided them with the evidence of my innocence and Richard Brook’s guilt. Once my name is cleared- with a very pubic display if Mycroft has his way- I will be able to resume my usual activities without hesitation. I look forward to more cases, don’t you? It’s been non-stop action for me these last few years, but it isn’t the same as mental stimulation.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed it,” John replied with a wistful tone.

Sherlock hesitated a moment, and then slipped his arms around John’s waist. He turned his head at the soft sigh and found John smiling softly and looking comfortable and calm.

“How are you feeling? Sick still? Headache? Any other symptoms?”

“No, I’m much better,” John replied, blushing at his concern, “Tea did me good. You want some?”

“I have to get down to St. Bart’s. I dislike the idea of leaving you alone after what you’ve been through. Come with me.”

Sherlock had to analyze John’s sample, which he now realized was the mystery sample from earlier. He had to find out if it was the same rapist; if it was he’d be able to lock the bastard up for a lifetime.

John had risen and slipped on his shoes, but he hesitated at the doorway with another nervous glance at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, was any of this planned? From before you jumped?” John asked, his voice going high as it had whenever he’d thought about the ‘rape’ recently.

“Gods, no,” Sherlock scoffed in reply, “I told you, I never imagined this before. That doesn’t, however, mean I’m not prepared to enjoy it now it has. I never planned to take a lover of any kind, but you’re perfect for me John. I need you.”

Sherlock hoped his words would reassure John that he meant no harm- that he cared for him and would take care of him as well. It must have worked because John blinked a moment, smiled and nodded his head with a pleased look on his face.

“I need you, too.”

“That much is obvious,” Sherlock replied, concerned by John’s casual acceptance of someone he saw as his rapist.

Sherlock all too well remembered his own sexual assault, and he had sworn he would never allow anyone to make him _hurt_ like that again: not just physically, but emotionally as well. Yet here John was, clinging to him as though he were a life raft. Perhaps John had been in love with him far longer than either of them realized and was completely committed to him. If so, it would explain why he had calmly dismissed all the visible evidence Moriarty had thrown at him regarding Sherlock’s guilt. It had been almost unbearable sitting there waiting for John to doubt him, but he never had. Not even after his apparent suicide.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock took John out to dinner to try to lighten the mood and create some good memories for their first day as a couple. _He_ could delete the bad things from his memory, but John didn’t have that luxury. They joked and flirted and returned home with an air of intimacy that left Sherlock feeling the ‘butterflies’ sensation for the first time in his life. It made him bold rather than nervous, and he flirted with John shamelessly, rather curious to find out if John was damaged by their previous intimacy. If he were afraid of Sherlock’s touch then he would have to abandon all hope at an intimate relationship; he wouldn’t wish the years of fear and disgust he’d felt on John no matter how amazing the resultant pleasure might be.

His fears were unfounded as John not only responded to him favorably, but also climbed on top of him and pleasured him until he was rendered speechless. It was almost agonizing to slip out of bed once he’d woken up early in the morning, but he never required as much sleep as John did and he _had_ to catch the man who had harmed his dear blogger.

XXXXXXXX

A call had Lestrade out of bed early and letting him into the Yard… Well, Sherlock had already picked the lock, but he waited for Lestrade to arrive before he went in. Once in he went through the evidence Anderson had collected. Nearby Lestrade alternated between yawning and worrying that Sherlock was going to get him in trouble.

“No luck on that blood? Damn it!” Sherlock shouted, slamming his hand down on the desk.

“You’re taking this awfully personally,” Lestrade commented in surprise.

“It _is_ personal,” Sherlock snarled, but was too busy sorting through the rest of Andersons work (if you could call his paltry efforts work) to bother answering.

“I should have gone there and collected samples myself!” Sherlock raged.

“What would that have done? The sample isn’t going to have a match unless the bastards in the system.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I suppose.”

“Sherlock, does this have anything to do with John’s patient?” Lestrade asked.

“I need a list of ketamine buyers, Lestrade,” Sherlock informed, “Do you have them? Tell me you do, the man’s been at large for nearly four bloody years!”

“Of course we do, and we keep it updated. We aren’t incompetent, I’ll have you know!”

Sherlock snorted at that ridiculous assumption, “What about veterinarians?”

“Who?”

“Veterinarians use it, too. Do you have them on the list?”

Lestrade sighed, “I’ll check. Wait here. Don’t remove _anything_ from this room!”

Lestrade was gone about ten minutes before Sherlock got a frightened text from John.

**Lestrade is on to you. Where are you? – JW**

_Shit!_ Sherlock thought in frustration. _Damn Lestrade! John must have talked to him yesterday. Now he’s following John’s suspicions. I need to catch that bastard fast. Before he tracks John down and takes him out._

**Following a lead. Stay at home. Do not go out. A mistake has been made. – SH**

**Whose mistake? – JW**

**Mine. – SH**

_I have to keep him at home where Mycroft can keep an eye on him. I’ll explain later. I should have noticed when you tried to tell me, John. You wouldn’t be going through this if I had._

**I don’t blame you. I care about you. Please don’t do this. – JW**

**I care about you as well. Everything is going to be okay. Go downstairs and sit with Mrs. Hudson. – SH**

**Don’t leave me again. Please. – JW**

**Never. – SH**

Sherlock hung up his phone and went to find Lestrade, who was stomping down the stairs to find him.

“What the fucking _hell_ is going on?!”

“You know what they say about people who assume, don’t you, Lestrade? Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t _terrify_ my boyfriend!”

“Someone _raped_ John, didn’t they?”

“Yes and no.”

“There’s no fucking halfway with that, Sherlock!”

“The blood in the loo that I sent you after belongs to the rapists, but he’s been so careful not to leave DNA behind and he’s apparently never been arrested, so we don’t have a comparison sample. He made a grievous error, however, when he thought John being short and cuddly looking meant he wasn’t deadly as fuck; even drugged John managed to fight him off. Sadly, I was drunk and didn’t realize what I was seeing at the time, but my memory hasn’t failed me. Sadly, we still have several inconsistencies.”

“And those would be?”

“1) How did the drug get into the drink? I was there with John the whole time. I saw nothing unusual. 2) Where is he getting the drug from in such supply? The man is raping a victim each week. 3) How is he evading the police while raping indiscriminately across several districts? 4) Where is he so I can make him pay?”

Sherlock paused a moment and his mind rushed ahead of him, studying the room he was in and laying out the scenario he’d just spelled out to Lestrade. The bar tender and waitress were innocent; this person was smart and wouldn’t put himself in such an easily recognizable position. That being said, he was also quite confident and had no fear about his face being recognized should the drug not erase his victim’s memory – so he wasn’t someone who relied on blending into the background. He _might_ use a disguise, but as The Woman had pointed out: a disguise was a self-portrait.

Which left only one person in the bar that could possibly be the rapist.

“Oh…” Sherlock breathed, “Oh, I know who it is, and he is _brilliant!”_

“Don’t tell me its Moriarty. Please don’t,” Lestrade groaned.

“No, he’s dead; definitely dead. That wasn’t a trick, but _this!”_

Sherlock turned and hurried out the door to apprehend his suspect. If he were correct he would have to catch him before his next act.

“You haven’t seen our list!” Lestrade called back.

“He isn’t on the list!”

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/7676.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Drugged Ch 6

Sherlock stood outside of the hiring agency and smirked at the sign. It was the symbol he’d seen on the cards the bastard had been handing out. He stepped inside and smiled endearingly at the receptionist who had started drooling the second he’d walked in.

_Single mother of one boy, above toddler but prepubescent. Two longhaired cats. Recently broke up with a short-term boyfriend. Has low self esteem and an eating disorder. Non-smoker._

“Um, hello, can you help me? I’m a bit at a loss. You see, my wife left me and I’ve got a daughter. She’s nine. Smart _and_ pretty.”

“Oh, it must be so hard to be a single dad of a little girl!”

“You’ve no idea! It’s my daughter’s birthday and she _adores_ magicians. I’ve heard of a few who are fairly talented from your agency and I wondered if I could hire one short notice.”

“I might have one or two available. How short notice are we talking?”

“Today. Her mum ran out today… with the clown.”

“On her _birthday_?” The woman asked in horror.

“Afraid so,” Sherlock nodded, “I don’t want to tell her until tomorrow, but that means I have to _really_ wow her so she just thinks her mums on a bender again. Poor thing. I don’t want her to blame herself.”

“Oh, my… I’ll see what I can do. There must be someone who’s… what time’s the party?”

“1PM, but I’m sure I can change the time. She’s only got the two friends and I have both of their mums’ numbers.”

“Oh, the poor lamb!” The woman flipped typed into her computer at astonishing speed and soon turned the screen to show him a picture, “These three are available at various times today.”

Sherlock squinted at the screen, “Oh, dear. This won’t do. She’s seen all them before. Perhaps you can refer me to another agency? Do you think there’s time?”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curly hair, knowing full well the effect it would have on the woman, as he looked both sexy and vulnerable.

“Let me call a few and see if we can switch schedules. Here’s our booklet. Are there any she hasn’t seen from there?”

Sherlock flipped the pages quickly and pointed out his man, “There! Him! She wanted him last year but he wasn’t available. I remember her mentioning missing seeing him at another function and we were to make it up to her, but it just didn’t work out.”

“He’s got a noon and a three o’clock party. I’ll see if he can switch with Wally the Wonderful and see you at one.”

“You’re brilliant!” Sherlock crowed, pulling out a page from John’s book, “Truly fantastic!”

The woman winked at him and he blushed, smiled, and glanced down shyly.

He’d never seen someone dial a phone with _quite_ that speed and accuracy.

XXXXXXXXXX

Max the Magician, who also went by Max the Male Magician, was a published double act and a secret triple act. Publicly he did children’s parties under the first name and adult parties under the second. Privately he raped under both. Max preferred men he could easily subdue. He chose them from the family of the children at the parties, stalked the future spouses of the bachelorettes he stripped for, and picked up a few patrons at the bars and clubs he relaxed at after work.

The genius of it was that he did it all while flaunting his name in a quest for more customers/victims, so if a victim remembered him well… of course they did! He was there at the party/bar/club just like he was every night! In fact, he was such a regular that the bar tenders and bouncers never mentioned him when questioned. He wasn’t ‘Max the Magician’ to them, he was ‘Hey Max! Welcome back!’. Add to that a condom held on by a cock ring to keep him mostly erect while he was ‘hunting’ and he could easily do his worst in only a few minutes while his victims were disoriented from the drug. Since he re-dressed them afterwards and they usually were disoriented and lost their memories, most of them staggered home and didn’t report the rape until the next day when the woke up injured and sick. Since 50% of rapes went unreported, the statistic of one rape a week was probably closer to two or three. Unless they required medical care it was entirely possible even less had reported it, though his violent assaults had likely not swung the odds in that direction.

As for how he slipped in the pill? He was a magician, and even hours of questioning didn’t garner Sherlock anything beyond ‘A magician never reveals his secrets’.

“Slight of hand. It was probably up his sleeve,” Sherlock groused, but Lestrade and Donovan were snickering at his frustration and didn’t buy his answer any more than he did.

John stood by the side of the viewing mirror and stared into it as if it held the answers to the future. Perhaps it did.

“John, come away from there. You’ve seen enough of him,” Sherlock scowled.

“He doesn’t even look intimidating,” John replied, “I remember most of it now, though it’s a blur. I didn’t even think he was a threat until he pushed me into the handicapped stall and pinned me.”

“You fought him off, that’s all that counts,” Sherlock replied, walking to him and tugging him close.

“I accused you of _raping me_ ,” John countered, pulling out of Sherlock’s arms, “How can you just be okay with that? That’s not okay! I doubted you when it counted most!”

“No, it counted most with Moriarty, and you didn’t doubt me this time. You were misinformed and I didn’t correct you because I thought it best you weren’t living in terror of something you couldn’t recall clearly. Better the enemy you knew than the one you could only imagine.”

“Sherlock, I thought you’d _raped me_. That doesn’t bother you?”

“If you’d really thought that, you wouldn’t have made love to me last night,” Sherlock replied softly, pulling John back into his arms, “Deep down inside you knew the truth. You were protecting yourself. My brave soldier.”

“Sherlock even if that’s true… how could you possibly know that?”

“Perhaps I’ll tell you some day.”

  
XXXXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock?” John called, “I’m just typing up the Sleight of Hand Case and I just realized something: you never detailed your capture to me.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. Since when do you miss an opportunity to gloat?”

Sherlock snorted, “I didn’t want to bring back more unpleasant memories to you.”

John stood up from his chair and headed over to where Sherlock lay stretched out on the sofa. He straddled the detective’s hips, noting the half smile that appeared.

“You know I once called you an inhuman machine? Where were you hiding all this charm and sincerity?”

“Deep where no one could use it to hurt me,” Sherlock replied with another snort.

“Hey, open your eyes a second.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid lazily open and he peered up at John with a guarded expression.

“I’ll never hurt you,” John promised.

“Same.”

“Good. Now tell me, you mad detective, you.”

Sherlock smirked, “Your title is perfect for a change. I invited him over to a private room I’d booked and when he showed up I pretended the party had fallen through. I told him how sorry I was and that I’d still pay him for his time. Then I offered him a drink since all the stuff for the party was there. He and I sat down to our cups of pop and instead of drinking mine I slipped it down a hose in my sleeve. After a few minutes I began to act dizzy and nauseous and excused myself to use the restroom. He, of course, followed. When he attacked me I easily overpowered him and told him what I’d done. I handcuffed him to myself and walked him back to 221B where we ran into you and you confirmed him as your assailant. Before you ask, yes, the drink had the drug in it. I presented it to Lestrade as evidence. He’d been prescribed them by a doctor, apparently, for psychiatric treatment of a non-existent bipolar disorder.”

“But you never saw him slip you the pill?”

Sherlock scowled, “My current theory is some sort of propulsion system since he never touched my drink and I never took my eye off of it.”

John laughed and Sherlock shoved at him playfully. The two men tussled on the couch, and as usual it turned intimate the second one of them got close to overpowering the other. John moaned as he lazily rubbed his stiffening prick against Sherlock’s own. They stroked and kissed; content to let the passion build slowly as they enjoyed each other’s bodies. When Sherlock began to whine in the back of his throat John new he couldn’t take the lazy pace anymore so he slid down the detective’s body and slipped his cock free of the confines of his robe and pants.

John started slowly, sliding his tongue along the shaft and nuzzling his bollocks before sliding upwards and lathing the tip of Sherlock’s leaking cock. The man groaned throatily and pressed his hand against the back of John’s head. John allowed the encouragement and slowly slid down Sherlock’s cock at the pace the detective wanted. When he gave his hair a tug he slid back up, flicking his tongue along the bottom of the shaft from base to tip. Sherlock groaned and pressed him for more speed. John took to bobbing his head in Sherlock’s lap, slowly increasing his speed while sucking firmly and flicking his tongue along the sensitive underside. Sherlock’s breathing sped up and John began to increase pressure until Sherlock was pumping his hips upwards and gasping in soft, sharp inhalations. When he felt the man’s cockhead swell just that bit more he stopped dipping so low and focused on just the tip until Sherlock came with a groan and went utterly limp. John swallowed his lovers release down, licking up what he missed and smiling at his soft grunts as his teasing tongue sent darts of pleasure up his shaft.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” John praised.

“Mm.”

John waited for Sherlock to remember him and cleared his throat when the man didn’t.

“Hm?”

“Ah, bit tense down here,” John nudged him with his hard on.

“Oh! Damn. Sorry, John. Come up here, will you?”

John climbed the lanky detective, who scooted down a bit, and raised his eyebrows in surprise when he realized what the man wanted him to do. John leaned forward, bracing his hands on the armrest of the couch, and straddled Sherlock’s head.

“You ready?” John asked, his voice cracking in anticipation.

Sherlock answered him by pressing his hands to John’s buttocks and John’s cock slid down the detective’s throat. John moaned in bliss. Sherlock hadn’t done this for him yet, becoming nervous whenever John requested head. Now he took John slowly as far back as he could and then marked that span off by wrapping his fingers around the rest of his cock to prevent him going deeper. As John slid back up Sherlock mimicked John’s earlier actions of flicking his tongue and sucking lightly. John panted and restrained himself from thrusting wildly despite the urge to do so. Slowly they established a comfortable rhythm and John ignored the burning in his thighs and shoulders in favor of reveling in the pleasure Sherlock was giving him. When Sherlock’s hands squeezed his buttocks and encouraged him to thrust faster, John did so with a moan of relief. He was close, _so close_ , and he just needed something to tip him over the edge.

To John’s absolute undeniable pleasure, Sherlock provided that something more by moaning, his sinfully deep voice reverberating along John’s cock until he came gasping in surprise, shocked by the sudden outpouring of pleasure. Sherlock made a gurgling noise, but was swallowing John’s spunk down before the doctor had a chance to panic and pull away. John scrambled down Sherlock’s body and slumped down on him, panting in pleasure and nuzzling the man’s chest.

“That was _fantastic,_ Sherlock. My gosh, that was… oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“You’re a fast learner,” John smiled, breathing in his scent in relief.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Ah,” John pushed himself upright, kneeling between Sherlock’s splayed legs, “That doesn’t sound like a good ‘something’.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock replied.

“Okay. All right. Something I’ve done?”

“No, nothing like that,” Sherlock replied, sitting up and rubbing his hands together nervously as he stared across the flat at the fireplace.

“Well, what then?”

“I was raped,” Sherlock stated.

“You were… by Max?”

“No, no, years ago,” Sherlock replied with a shake of his head, “I was in Uni. My dorm mate decided to get revenge on me when I outed him publicly. He had some of his friends come over- three of them- and they pinned me down and took turns…”

“Bloody hell,” John breathed when Sherlock paused and closed his eyes to compose himself. He hesitantly slipped his hands between Sherlock’s own to show his support.

“They used my mouth and… John, I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with…”

“We don’t have to. I looked it up and some gay couples never do. It’s completely up to us. What you just did was… wonderful and brilliant and _enough_. I’m grateful for it, for whatever I can have with you, especially now I know what kind of a sacrifice it was for you to even try.”

“You aren’t…” Sherlock choked on the words, bowing his head and breathing heavily a moment.

“No,” John stated firmly, “I’m _not_. Not disgusted or disappointed, or whatever other negative thought is running through your head. I’d like to kill those four cowards, but other than that I’m still completely and utterly in love with you.”

Sherlock leaned sideways and slumped into John’s lap, curling his legs up into the couch and burying his face in John’s clothed lap.

“You make me feel pleasure. I never had that before. I never thought I could. Thank you, John.”

“Gods, your welcome. Thank _you_ for giving me a reason to live, to look forward to every day, to feel alive again. Sherlock, I was so alone and… thank you. Just… thank you for everything.”

“You might have your chance at revenge,” Sherlock laughed slightly, “I never told anyone about my assault- I was too scared at the time. Instead I spent years finding crimes each had committed thereafter and putting them all away. The first is scheduled for release in a few months. I never even confronted them. I’ve been thinking of doing so, but… to what aim?”

“That’s your call, Sherlock,” John replied, petting his hair gently, “I’ll support you whatever you choose to do.”

“It’s ironic, John,” Sherlock sighed, “Their assault took me from dabbling in deductions to becoming determined to rid the world of filth like them. We might never have met, otherwise.”

“I guess if you’re very lucky- or Sherlock Holmes- then good things can come of a terrible situation,” John smiled.

Sherlock snorted, rolled over, and smiled up at John with clear eyes, “I don’t believe in luck.”

“No, but you do believe in yourself, you arrogant git.”

“It’s only arrogance if it’s inaccurate.”

John laughed and they spent another hour joking together before heading into Sherlock’s room for bed, but John stayed awake for several hours after even the usually vigilant detective fell asleep.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John stepped into the room and walked down the row of tables to settle into a seat across from the man he’d come to visit. He sat down and stared quietly.

“What? You asked to see me, here I am.”

Silence.

“Do I know you?”

Silence.

“What, are you some sort of nutter?”

Silence.

“Look, I know you think I’ve got all the time in the fucking world, but I’d rather be cleaning a latrine than looking at your ugly mug. So unless you have something to say…”

The man’s diatribe died out as John slid a picture across the table. It was Sherlock’s photo from University. John had gone to great lengths to acquire it. The young man in the photo looked prim, proper, proud of his accomplishments, and _cheerful_ \- something John had rarely seen from Sherlock.

Then he slid forward the notice from the paper listing the man’s release date from prison.

The he slid forward a picture of John and Sherlock at their wedding.

“This supposed to intimidate me?” The man scoffed, though his face looked pale.

John stood up, his dog tags clinking and drawing the man’s attention like a laser beam, collected the pictures and paper with a quick slide of his fingers across the table, and left without a word.

One down- three to go.


End file.
